Two nights later the palace held its breath.
Kitchen fires burned low; stewards moved on felt soles; a patrol that would normally clatter past the inner court never reached the west wall because Longzi had spoken to them an hour earlier and pointed them toward a different stretch of stone.
Oil touched every hinge along the back corridor; even the iron latch on the trapdoor under Mingyu's desk no longer protested its own age.
Mingyu stood in the study alone for a time, his hands quiet at his sides, listening to the room remember its past.
The lacquered map table held its own weather of ink and routes. A brush lay clean on a folded cloth; he had not written this evening because there was nothing left to negotiate.
Shadow kept the doorway like a carved figure brought strangely to life, head up, ears pricked toward the floor.
